


you're the one i wanna watch the ship go down with

by lagaudiere



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagaudiere/pseuds/lagaudiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not dying on a Christian cruise ship sometimes means having to face hard truths about yourself. Mac's never been very good at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the one i wanna watch the ship go down with

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent post season 11 Catholic-guilt-with-a-happy-ending fic, basically inexcusable, etc.

For a moment, Mac really thinks that the light shining down on them is heaven, and he thinks that it was surprisingly painless to die. But of course it isn't really that kind of light, and God isn't waiting for them--only the Coast Guard.

It's not until they're on a lifeboat drifting out to sea that he realizes what's happening. 

 

Charlie is vomiting over the side while Frank pats him on the back and says some people just can't keep down engine fuel. Dee and Dennis are bickering on either side of him. Mac stares out at the expanse of the ocean; on the edge of his vision, the ship is gradually being swallowed by the sea. 

"This is my fault," Mac moans. "God is punishing me." 

"Oh Jesus Christ." Dennis throws his hands up in exasperation. "We're right back to Catholicism, that's fucking great." 

"I'm going through a rough time right now!" Mac snaps. "I just realized I wasted my entire life, okay?" . 

"Well, we've all done that," Dee mumbles. 

"You wasted your--" Dennis rolls his eyes. "Is this about the gay thing?" 

 

Saying it out loud was such a relief, like everything finally made sense. But he’d forgotten everything the Church said about God. God doesn't make things easy for you. God lets you be tempted and he punishes you if you fail. 

"Well, you guys could have told me!" 

It's because they're all secular sinners, he thinks before he can stop himself. They've all been laughing at you this entire time. They think everything you believe is stupid. 

But he doesn't believe it anymore. 

Or maybe he does, if God is really punishing him. He wishes there was a priest on this lifeboat; he can't think through this kind of thing himself. 

"I tried to tell you," Dennis says. "Your head was so buried in the sand, how the fuck was anyone supposed to get through to you? I mean for Christ's sake, Mac, you've tried to kiss me! It was pretty fucking obvious!" 

 

“I…”

Mac starts to respond, but he can't. The words hitting him feels like the ship sinking again, like he’s hitting the bottom of the ocean floor. 

He’s tried to kiss Dennis.

And that means that everything between them suddenly, horribly makes sense too.

For years, he’s just accepted it, that nervous, excited energy that Dennis makes him feel. They'd always been closer, maybe, than they should have; monthly dinners and all their other rituals had always meant a little more than was normal. They were best friends, though, and Mac had always thought that most people just weren't lucky enough to have best friends who fit together the way they did. But now, the pieces click into place, and Mac stares him--Dennis, eyes sharp and scornful as ever, the sun behind him like some painting of a saint. This is the worst kind of distraction from God there is. This is being in love. 

Charlie raises his head from the side of the boat. "For the record, I thought you already knew." 

"This is like when God flooded the Earth in the Bible," Mac says. "We're all sinners and we're going to drown."

 

There has to be a way out of this--he needs there to be, because this is the worst he’s ever felt. The pope says that you can't cure it, that you're just supposed to be celibate, but how is he supposed to live that that now that he knows, with this at the back of his mind all the time? No, there has to be something else, one of those other churches that say they can change you. Convert you. God, he fell into temptation so easily.

"We're alive!" Dennis screams. "No one's dead, no one’s going to hell, and you are not going to do this again!" 

Mac twists his hands together nervously and wishes he had a set of rosary beads. 

“It's a miracle, then,” he says finally. “The Lord heard my prayer.” 

All those promises he was making in his head, about how if God was really there this was his last chance to show them a sign, and he would be a better Christian than he ever had if they could all just live through this--God had heard them. 

Dennis barks out one of his strange, frightening laughs. “Bullshit,” he says. 

“Would you both shut up!” Dee says. “I can see land!” 

She leaps to her feet, and the rest of them quickly join her, chattering excitedly about the shoreline in the distance. Mac stays where he is and stares at the waves still crashing against the side of the boat. 

It wouldn't have been such a bad way to die, really, holding onto Dennis and Charlie’s hands, the five of them together, at peace with God and themselves. What more could you ask for? 

***

At the hospital the doctor tells Mac that he's experiencing a mild state of shock due to the traumatic nature of what they've all endured. It's a perfectly understandable reaction, she says. They've been through a lot. 

They make Charlie and Frank get their stomachs pumped, because of drinking engine fuel, and Dee has to be psychiatrically evaluated when she starts screaming at a nurse. Only Dennis seems to be completely all right. 

"You're incredibly lucky," the doctor tells him as she writes a prescription for some anti-anxiety drug. "What happened today, well, all I can say is that it must've been a miracle."

"Great," Mac mumbles, staring down at the floor. 

"You're free to go whenever you're ready. Don't stand up too quickly, you'll get dizzy," she says, and whisks out of the room. 

Dennis is standing by the doorway holding the prescription she'd written. Mac has to force himself to look him in the eye, because he knows Dennis hates it when he can't. 

"Why are you still here?" Mac says. 

"To be honest, I sort of thought you might kill yourself if I left you alone. Can't have that on my conscience." He started rifling through the drawers in the examination table. "Wonder if there's a prescription pad in here... I could use one." 

 

Mac feels sick. 

“You tore up all my dad’s letters.” 

“That was for the best!” Dennis turns away from his search and looks at him beseechingly. “You're better off without him, you know that. You don't need him. You have me.” 

It's like a knife twisting, not in his heart, but somewhere deep and painful in the pit of his stomach where no one can ever pull it out. He wishes he could believe Dennis, when he says things like that. 

"Do you hate me?" Mac asks. "It's just, sometimes it really feels like you do. Like, because you're saying it." 

He knows Dennis hates this kind of thing, emotions, but he hates uncertainty and right now there's nothing else but uncertainty. 

"Why don't you tell me if you still believe in God and if you're still going to pretend to be straight and I'll answer that," Dennis says. 

Mac wants to say that he doesn't know if he believes and that he doesn't know how to stop believing, that he wasn't pretending and that he doesn't know how to be honest. He wants to tell Dennis he loves him in a way he never meant to and to beg forgiveness for that. 

"I don't know," he says. 

Dennis slams the drawers shut. "Fine. Let's get out of here." 

Mac trails behind him down the hallway of the hospital and tries not to look at him, tries not to think. His head still hurts. It's better to focus on that; it's a simpler feeling. 

"We're going to sue the shit out of that cruise ship church, by the way," Dennis adds. "So that's one positive." 

 

***

Mac tries to be normal. Mac tries not to talk about it, and for the most part the rest of the gang does, too, which he realizes now they must have been doing for years. 

He goes to church on Sunday--his old church, the one with the droning music and mumbling priest that feels like home--but not to confession. When he looks up at the altar, he can't stop thinking about what it would mean if none of it were real, if all their prayers were going nowhere. He says “and also with you” when the congregation chirps “and with your spirit”. He’s never been good with change. 

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,” he whispers, “but only say the word and I shall be healed.” 

No one answers. 

Charlie asks if he wants to start going to a community musical theater thing together, and it might be kind of a good idea; the whole Nightman thing didn't turn out that badly. But musicals are a gay thing, and he doesn't know what the people there would think. He says no, and he and Charlie do what they always do and don't talk about it. That's why they're such good friends. 

But Dennis isn't like that; he can't stop needling. Dennis won't stop asking theological questions he doesn't understand. He downloads some app on his phone that's supposed to help you meet hot local guys and texts Mac pictures of them. He wants something. Mac can't figure out what it is. 

Mac tries not to think about what he wants. He's grateful that Frank, in his typical way, has mostly forgotten about their bet from the suburbs, and he can sleep on the couch in Dee’s apartment where there's no chance of accidental physical contact with Dennis. 

“Dee’s watching the bar,” Dennis says the next Friday, walking out of the back office with a gleam in his eyes. “We’re going out.” 

“Oh.” Mac freezes. “Uh, we can still go to strip clubs, if you want. It won't be weird.” 

“It's always been weird. Anyway, I was thinking Locust Street.” 

“Locust Street” is one of the phrases that gives Mac a terrible sinking feeling in his chest now. There are a lot of them, and Dennis throws them around like it’s nothing. 

Dennis leans on the bar, too close, and Mac jerks away instinctively. 

“Don't be a coward, Mac,” he says. 

So he follows, like he always does. He sits in the passenger’s seat of Dennis’ car and listens to him talk about Philly’s gay scene, trails behind him into the bar, lets him order drinks for both of them. 

The Rainbow is playing its music uncomfortably loud, a song he would pretend not to recognize as Carly Rae Jepsen. There was something appealing about the noise and lights, the crowd that all appeared to be having the greatest night of their lives, but it seems wrong now. Too bright, too open, no dark corners to sit in and not be seen. 

Dennis hands him a drink with half a lime in it and slaps him heartily on the back. “This is gonna be good for you. I promise.” 

If anyone recognizes him, they'll know that he’s been there twice, and that means he’s definitely doing it on purpose. And he’s here with Dennis, and people might think that he’s here with Dennis, people might see the look on his face and know what it means. 

Would they think we look good together? Mac wonders. Like we belong here? 

“Hey!” a piercing voice says behind them, and Mac immediately jolts in his seat. “You're the guy from Paddy’s!” 

Mac almost jolts out of his seat, but the voice, which belongs to a slim man with blonde hair and a very angry scowl, is apparently addressing Dennis

“Are you the one that left those weird notes under my door?” the guy demands. 

“No, look, I'm sure those were left by a genuine Satanist. Not me.” Under a continued withering stare, Dennis folds. “Alright, well, I have a system--it's not important. I'm here with my friend, okay? I'm trying to help with some psychological issues here, so, you know, get out of the way.” 

The blonde guy shakes his head in disgust and turns to Mac. “Whatever. You--don't go home with him, man. He's a total psychopath.” 

Then he just turns on his heel and walks out. 

Mac stares after the guy’s retreating back for a moment, then whips his head around to Dennis. “Who was that guy?” 

“No one.” Dennis sips his drink calmly. “You remember that time Dee thought she was dating some guy from her acting class and he brought a bunch of gay dudes to the bar?” 

“Sure, yeah…” 

“Well, you know that night I was trying to teach you to do tequila shots, I was pretty drunk and some things happened, and eventually I just realized, why let something like gender hold you back? Why shouldn't I allow a greater segment of the population to experience this?” He’s talking completely casually, taking stock of the room. “This place is packed, by the way, we should've stayed in the game.” 

Mac stares at him. 

“That was what, ten years ago?” he manages. “You never said anything to me.” 

Dennis laughs. “I should have.” He sets his glass back down with a clang that seems louder than it should. “Guess I thought you’d never change.” 

“I would have,” Mac says before he can think. “I mean…” 

“I'm already going to hell, right.” 

“That's not what I meant.” Mac tries to laugh it off. “But you are.” 

“Maybe.” Dennis leans forward and takes a sip of Mac’s sugary drink through the straw, looking at him under hooded eyes the way he does when he’s got some bad idea that will ruin both of their days. “But it won't be because I’ve banged a few guys.” 

Mac’s head is full of all kinds of images that he’s spent years trying not to think about. Everything is a little too hot and too loud and too close, and he digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand, trying to block some of it out. Dennis notices, of course. 

“You don't have to hurt yourself. Most people just jerk off.” 

In high school he would punch the wall in his bedroom until his knuckles bled every time he had a fight with Dennis, or had to sit awkwardly in the back of the Reynolds’ car while Barbara dotingly asked Dennis about his day like his mother never would, or when Dennis blew him off to go on a date and he ended up spending another night in someone’s basement listening to Charlie and Pete have stoned conversations about which girl from math class was the hottest. That was a sin too; wrath. Everything about Dennis was. 

“I shouldn't be here,” Mac says. 

But Dennis never takes no for an answer. “You could sleep with one of these guys, you know. Lots of them would go home with you. You could actually enjoy it.” 

“I don't want to have sex with any dudes,” Mac says defensively. He stares down at his hands, and he knows he’s doing it again, the not-making-eye-contact thing. 

And there's anger in Dennis’ voice now. “Come on. I know exactly what you like. I know your type.” 

He probably does. He has files on all of them that he won't let anyone read, says he knows Mac better than he knows himself. He’s probably noticed every time Mac has looked at him too long out of the corner of his eye and catalogued it away for future reference. 

“Just do something,” Dennis says.

“I can't.”

Dennis’ eyes are dark with a look Mac can't place, and he leans forward automatically, like magnetism. “Dance with me, then,” Dennis says. 

“What?” 

“Come on.” Dennis stands up and grabs him by the wrist in a way that’s half playful, half a threat. “You have to start somewhere.” 

Mac considers that dancing with someone at a gay bar isn't a demonstrably worse sin than being at a gay bar in the first place. The weird frozen thing he's drinking is probably specifically forbidden in Leviticus. 

“Fine,” he says, and Dennis pulls him to practically the center of the dance floor. They're surrounded by twinks in tank tops who are mostly grinding on each other and waving glowsticks. Mac resists doing the sign of the cross. 

Better to get this over with now, and pray about it later. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Mac grumbles, half-hoping that Dennis will get bored and just drop it, leave it alone. “How do we decide who’s supposed to lead?” 

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Dennis says dismissively. “I’ll lead.” 

He grabs both of Mac’s hands and places them unceremoniously on his shoulders, and then sets his own hands on Mac’s waist, like some kind of formal ballroom dancing, like they're at prom instead of this modern-day Sodom. 

Mac’s probably blushing, but he hopes it’s dark enough that Dennis can’t tell. 

There doesn't seem to be much movement involved in this form of dancing, or maybe it's just the slow song--it's Adele, Mac thinks. They're basically revolving on the spot in a tiny circle, although Dennis does some kind of complicated foot movement that has the effect of pressing basically their entire bodies together. Mac looks around guiltily, but no one is looking at them. They blend in completely. 

“You're a natural,” Dennis whispers to him, and it's a voice Mac would know anywhere. It's his seductive voice, used for women he wants to sleep with, people he wants to give him money, and generally anyone he’s about to attempt to charm. 

With practiced subtlety, almost without Mac noticing it, Dennis’ hands have crept from safely on his hips to underneath his shirt, where they're touching bare skin, and Mac’s heart is beating so fast he must he able to feel it. 

Mac should leave, he really should, walk out now and confess this and every sin until his soul is pure again, a blank slate to try again to be the person he’s supposed to be. But he remembers how it felt to confess his worst sin and realize no one else thought it was one--not even Dennis, who is the most judgmental person he knows, who has been the center of his world for most of his life, whose handprints currently feel like they're being burned into Mac’s skin. 

Maybe if he just stays here a little longer, it won't be wrong. The church will still be there in the morning. 

“Hey, look at me,” Dennis says, demanding, and one of his hands is on Mac’s jaw now, locking their gazes together. 

“Why are you doing this?” Mac asks, but Dennis cuts him off by kissing him. 

Mac makes a startled noise of almost-protest, but Dennis is always impossible to refuse, his hand sliding into Mac’s hair and holding on tightly, his mouth hot and insistent, and it's the easiest thing in the world to respond, leaning in, pulling him closer and knowing it’s not close enough, never will be. 

It doesn't feel like how kissing has ever felt before. It's not just something to get over with or a means to an end; he feels like he could do this forever, if Dennis would let him. It's instinct, not performance. And it's mutual, he thinks dizzily. He wants this too. 

It's a little bit like drowning was, he forgets how to breathe, and eventually he has to stop for a second to remember, but they're still basically as close together as two people can be with all their clothes on, and he wants nothing except to keep drowning, to let Dennis pull him under. 

“Dennis,” he says, eyes wide, “oh my God.” 

If this isn't right, if God wants something else for him, why does everything else feel like such a pale echo of this? 

“I want us to work,” Dennis says as an answer, still tracing light circles into Mac’s skin with his fingertips. “I think we could work like this.” 

They're still faintly swaying on the spot, too slow now for the music that’s playing. Dennis is looking at him with something that feels like desire, and that's its own kind of miracle. What kind of God would put them on earth together, ensure that they met and could never stay apart, if they weren't supposed to do this, weren't meant to be this way? 

Probably the same God who left Adam and Eve alone with the Devil and the fruit they weren't supposed to eat, says a voice in the back of Mac’s head, but he decides he’s not going to listen to that right now. 

“Well,” Dennis says, “are you going to leave?” even though he must know that Mac won’t, that not even for heaven itself could he walk away right now. 

“Let's get out of here,” Mac says. 

*** 

They walk down Locust Street holding hands, Dennis pressed against his side whispering things in his ear that make his ears burn with shame and anticipation, past a dozen rainbow flags in windows and on sidewalks, and no one looks at them twice. Mac feels like if Dennis lets go of him, he might float away. 

Halfway back to the car, he remembers something important, and he grabs both of Dennis’ hands, spinning around so they're face-to-face. 

“I need you to promise me something,” he says. 

Dennis looks faintly annoyed. “What is it?” 

“Promise me that if you’re dying you’ll ask God for forgiveness,” Mac says in a rush. “Just in case. Because, at that point, that’s just playing it safe.” 

Dennis raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't let go of Mac’s hands, and Mac doesn't look away. “Playing both sides, you mean?” 

“I don’t want to go to heaven alone,” Mac says. “So, just try to mean it.” 

Dennis looks at him like somewhat who will never understand, because no one ever taught him that it was wrong to do exactly what he wanted to do and be whatever he wanted to be. Mac waits for that expression to sharpen into contempt. But it doesn't, not this time. 

“Fine,” he says. “If that makes you feel better. I promise.” He laughs a little. “I know you’d be bored as shit without me around.” 

Mac kisses him again, because he's beautiful and God will have to understand that he doesn't know any better and because he can do that, now, without Dennis looking disgusted or shoving him away and without the ground underneath them opening up and sucking them straight into hell. It's a good feeling. He could maybe get used to it. 

“Yeah,” Dennis says, smiling at him almost softly, “this can work.” 

Mac isn't sure whose benefit that's for, but he wants to believe it, and there's no harm in letting yourself believe. Just for a second, he closes his eyes and sends whoever’s listening a silent prayer of thanks.


End file.
